


My Friends Are My Republic

by notfromcold



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Blood, Bruises, Capitalism, Child Death, Child Injury, Child Labor, Dissociation, Exams, Friendship, Homo and Vir, Illness, Industrial Revolution, Injury, Medical Squick, Misogyny, Multi, POC Enjolras week, Poverty, Racism, Recovery, Studying, Transphobia, Trauma, Victim Blaming, Violence, cannon era medicine, cannon era trans defenders of justice, child illness, corporate accountability for human rights abuses, discrimination against sex workers, hurt comfort, implied police violence, labor movement, stoicism, student amis, sutures, the antiseptic means I love you, torture/beating, union busters (or their precursors)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-05-19
Updated: 2015-08-11
Packaged: 2018-03-31 06:24:17
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,349
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3967771
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/notfromcold/pseuds/notfromcold
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>1826: In the Parisian suburb of Belleville, industry is thriving while the poorest families pay the price. A series of child deaths fans the flame of social unrest, but none of the agitators could have expected the lengths to which the workshop owners will go to protect their reputations and their profits. Amidst the strife and violence of a dangerous conspiracy, Les Amis make new friends and allies, Enjolras learns just how loved he is, and Feuilly begins learning just how loved he is going to be.</p><p>WARNINGS:<br/>Contains graphic descriptions of medical stuff/acute stress response (mental shock)/trauma and recovery/possible dissociation, as well as medicinal drug use. Torture referenced but not described in detail. One of Combeferre's professors is misogynistic and anti-sex worker, but the main characters do not share his views.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Light Is Not Lost Where Love Enters

It was eleven o’clock on a rainy Paris night – eleven o'clock exactly, and the night was so rainy that the city and its environs seemed swallowed up in wind and water. Combeferre knew the exact time because his eyes had wandered to the clock on the mantel repeatedly in the last five minutes. Enjolras was out very late, but it was ridiculous to be worried. “Stop worrying,” Combeferre commanded himself, shifting his focus back to the textbook in front of him. _The Relation of_ _Poverty_ _to Disease_ was a promising title, but the course itself had proved a horrifying muddle. The textbook was filled with diatribes against the poor, as though the most vulnerable should be blamed for their miserable state – indeed, their ill-health was clearly their own fault for daring to be exploited by the rich! The professor was moralistic and dull, and Combeferre suspected that he was more than a little senile. Combeferre was certain that he owed the man some pity at least, but the best he had been able to muster was a sort of resigned anger, liberally mixed with guilt because he couldn’t bring himself to be more compassionate towards the octogenarian.

Resisting the urge to stand and peer into the street for any sign of Enjolras, Combeferre opened his notebook, dipped his pen in ink and attempted to take notes – “Women of the lower classes are a scourge to society, bringing men to ruin through disease by their feminine wiles...” and, God, this was just awful. He slammed the book shut. If Enjolras had been there they could have scoffed at that horrifying sentence together. As it was, Combeferre was stuck wading through his bigoted textbook on his own and attempting not to worry about Enjolras. Combeferre almost never worried about Enjolras, and he knew that it was stupid to do so now. Enjolras could handle himself in most situations, but something about tonight seemed different and it had Combeferre on edge. “It’s the rain,” Combeferre thought, “and my exams. And the fact that I haven’t eaten. And the fact that I hate my classes this term. In a moment Enjolras will knock on the door and I will feel like a fool for worrying.”

Enjolras had suggested they meet at four o’clock for an early dinner and a study session. Neither understood the other’s material in the least, Combeferre being totally ignorant of the penal code and Enjolras being blissfully unaware of the effects of syphilis, but they made a good team and generally kept each other on task. Combeferre was tired of his classes, annoyed by his Ultra-Royalist classmates, and nearly ready to murder Grantaire for distracting him earlier in the day, so he'd eagerly agreed, looking forward to dinner and conversation.

Enjolras, Combeferre reflected, had even more reason to be angry with Grantaire. The last meeting of Les Amis de l'ABC had ended abruptly after Grantaire interrupted proceedings to rhapsodize at length about Enjolras's hair.

Enjolras had paled and replied coldly, “Grantaire, I had hoped to have at least one meeting this term during which you did not see fit to comment on my face or body. I see now that I held this hope in vain. Does anyone else have any comments germane to the topic we originally agreed to discuss?”

Combeferre, who had known his friend Jean-Charles Enjolras during the days in Marseilles when he answered to the name Charlotte Enjolras and allowed his parents to call him their daughter, understood that Grantaire's comment frightened his friend as much as it angered him, and that in turn upset Combeferre. Indeed, Enjolras was handsome – his hair was the golden-brown of a lazy river in late summer and his dark eyes, flecked as they were with yellow, stood out against the warm tan of his face. In happy moments he seemed composed entirely of sunlight. When angry, his eyes flashed golden beneath his long lashes, reminding Combeferre of a cat preparing to spring. But these traits, striking as they were, had done little other than put Enjolras in danger. His delicate features fueled questions regarding his sex, even after he moved to Paris, leaving those who had known him as a girl behind in the South. His brown complexion, that same complexion that Grantaire enjoyed comparing to honey or fields of wheat, left little doubt about his Caribbean ancestry, ancestry that some would judge or even condemn him for.

Yes, thought Combeferre, it had been a stressful week and he and Enjolras could have used some time to simply relax in each other's company. However, when Combeferre returned home he found a note from Enjolras slipped under his door.

 

C., I am sorry to reschedule our dinner, but I was invited to a meeting in Belleville this evening. Not sure how long it will run. I may be back late, but with your permission, I will at least call to wish you goodnight. Hope you will allow me to make it up to you with dinner tomorrow. – E.

 

The note was pure Enjolras, equal parts intimate and formal, an apology from a friend and a coldly practical note from their chief making sure that someone knew where he was going and would notice if he did not return. Belleville was a suburb frequented by labor leaders, but also by police. Les Amis had been attempting to make contacts there for months, and it was little wonder that Enjolras had dropped everything to attend the meeting. Combeferre had been mildly concerned about the danger, but had made himself coffee, opened his books, and put the note mostly out of his mind. He had not begun to feel worried until it got dark. That had been five hours ago. At what point should he pull on a coat and travel to Belleville himself? And where in Belleville should he even look for his friend, seeing as Enjolras neglected to include the location of the meeting in his note? Should he take anyone with him? Bahorel would be a good choice. Come to think of it, why had Enjolras not taken Bahorel? Or Courfeyrac? Or him? He was beginning to feel just as testy with Enjolras as he had with Grantaire earlier when there was a knock at the door.

“Thank God,” Combeferre thought. Then he felt like a fool for thinking it. What had he been expecting to go wrong? Was this what happened to you when you spent too much time reading about 'feminine wiles'?

“Who is it?”

“Enjolras. Could you come quickly please?”

Combeferre hurried to the door. He and Enjolras spent so much time knocking on each other’s doors that the phrase “come quickly” had become a sort of code for “something is wrong”. It was a short-hand that meant everything from “I am being followed” to “Prouvaire got into a fight” to “I am carrying a really heavy box and am about to drop it on my foot”.

Combeferre pulled open the door and his feeling of relief, already faltering, fled entirely. Enjolras was wet to the skin. The hair plastered to his face did nothing to disguise the bruises, already darkening, around his eyes and across his cheekbones. His waistcoat was half-buttoned and the shirt beneath it was stained red, completely soaked with rainwater and blood. He smiled briefly at Combeferre, his expression a mixture of affection, pain, and a calm sort of resignation. There was something darker there as well, shock, perhaps, or lingering fear. Combeferre gently placed his hand on Enjolras’s back, led him into the apartment, and locked the door behind them.

“Are you being followed?” Combeferre asked. Enjolras had walked inside under his own power and did not appear unsteady, but Combeferre kept a hand on the small of his friend’s back anyway.

“Not as far as I know.”

“Where are you hurt?”

“A cut on the left side of my chest. And bruised ribs I believe. I don’t think they are broken.” He spoke calmly, almost indifferently. “Thank you. I'm sorry to bring this to your doorstep.”

“Don’t be ridiculous!” The words sounded harsher than Combeferre intended, and he bit his lip. “I will take a look.” He cleared the books and papers from his one arm chair and drew it nearer to the fire. “With your permission of course.”

“Of course.”

Combeferre led Enjolras to the chair. Enjolras moved with his customary grace, but frowned slightly as he bent to sit and leaned on Combeferre’s arm as though the movement made him feel dizzy. His hands were sticky with blood and dirt, and the sight of them made Combeferre’s stomach hurt. He took a deep breath, made sure that Enjolras was sitting comfortably, stood slowly, and walked still more slowly to retrieve his medical bag and some dry clothes from the hall closet.

“First things first. Let’s get you warm and dry.” Combeferre began by peeling off Enjolras's wet waistcoat and trousers and assisting him into a dry pair of loose pygamy pants. He was obliged to cut off Enjolras’s shirt and modified corset, as he did not want to injure his friend further by fussing with clothing. Enjolras stared straight ahead, running his tongue over dry lips as Combeferre pulled the shirt away and surveyed the damage. It was not pretty. His chest, ribs, and shoulders were a tapestry of bruise colors. There was a deep gash running across his collar bone, ending in a bruise on his left shoulder.

“I'm sorry about the corset, I know …,” Combeferre swallowed, unsure, “they weren't easy to have made. The people who attacked you – did they …?”

“No. My secret is as safe as it ever was, I think. They were too busy hitting me to notice much.” Enjolras bit his lip suddenly as though he'd said too much, then laughed, sounding equal parts relieved, angry, and chagrined. Even to his own ears it must have sounded too much like a sob because he blushed then closed his eyes, seemingly forcing his shoulders to relax and his face to return to its previous look of composure.

Combeferre averted his eyes briefly, giving Enjolras the private moment he needed to collect himself, then carefully began to dry his friend's hair and face with a soft cloth. With that done, he ran a comforting hand down Enjolras’s arm, arranged a blanket over his lap and a second one over his shoulders, then pulled his stethoscope out of its box. “Take a few deep breaths please,” he said, and when Enjolras complied, was relieved to find that no damage had been done to his friend’s lungs. “And follow my finger with your eyes,” he added, relieved, also, to find no evidence of a concussion.

“No problems there,” Combeferre tried to sound reassuring. “I just need to check for broken ribs. Cough, please. And again. One more time,” Combeferre instructed,pressing his hands to each bruised areas of his friend's chest in turn. Enjolras coughed as requested and did not flinch or pull away, but he turned alarmingly pale, holding his breath for a moment after Combeferre was finished then struggling to breathe normally.

The reaction surprised Combeferre more than it should have. He was accustomed to taking everything that Enjolras told him as true. Enjolras had not appeared to be in much pain and when he said his ribs were only bruised, Combeferre had believed him. It had become suddenly quite apparent that Enjolras’s ribs were broken. Combeferre felt his own chest grow tight in sympathy. “I’m sorry,” he said, placing a hand on his friend’s shoulder to steady him until he could get his breathing back under control. “I didn’t mean...”

Enjolras coughed. “No. It’s alright. I’m alright.”

“A couple of ribs are broken but we can patch that up. I'm not sure how you could have thought they were only bruised.”

Enjolras coughed again and smiled wryly. “Some of us are studying to become lawyers.”

Combeferre smiled back, relieved that Enjolras seemed calm and not despondent or in shock. “Lets take a look at that cut.”

The cut was jagged and obviously deep. “This will need stitches,” Combeferre said. “Ten to twelve, I think. I will know better after I've cleaned it.”

“Thank you,” Enjolras replied calmly. Although still very pale, he did not look particularly worried. For lack of a better word, he looked rather distracted. It was a look that Combeferre was used to seeing Enjolras get while composing a speech, sympathetic, but very, very distant. He had mentioned it to Courfeyrac once, and Courfeyrac had laughed affectionately. “He does go into his own little world,” Courfeyrac agreed, “but it seems a nice one. He appears to be having tea in his head with the Revolution.” Perhaps, Combeferre thought, it was best right now that Enjolras was keeping company with the Revolution. He had a rough night ahead of him.

Combeferre poured laudanum into a glass and handed it to Enjolras. It was a small dose, but it comprised the entire store of laudanum he had in the house. He'd snuck it out of the Necker earlier in the week for his downstairs neighbor, an elderly woman who was very poor and very afflicted with arthritis.

Enjolras looked briefly nervous as Combeferre handed him the laudanum, and he closed his eyes as he drank it. The expression was gone in an instant, however, and afterwards he sat stoically, looking at the fire. He didn’t make a sound as Combeferre pressed a brandy soaked cloth to the gash in his chest.

It took Combeferre over a half-hour to clean and stitch the wound. Enjolras never took his eyes off the fire, but Combeferre could feel him shaking slightly towards the end. A barely noticeable tremor, like the vibrations you would feel if you pressed your hand to the metal supports of a bridge while a carriage rumbled past above you.

“There.” It felt to Combeferre like the first word he had spoken in a century and it came out almost as a squeak. He cleared his throat and tried again. “I’ll just bandage that up for you.”

Enjolras took a deep breath and seemed to semi-magically control his shaking. “Thank you,” he said lifting his gaze from the flames and smiling at Combeferre. This time, Combeferre could not quite bring himself to smile back.

“What happened?” he asked gently, then immediately regretted the question. Enjolras was looking at the fire again. He looked distant, almost dreamy, and indescribably sad. He blinked, as though to clear his head, and surprised Combeferre by taking his hand and holding it tightly.

“It was a gang, I think, not police,” Enjolras spoke slowly, as though thinking out loud.“The majority of the meeting was spent discussing such groups. One of the local spinning workshops, which employs a great number of Belleville's children, has taken to employing gangs as well. The children – they are often injured by the spinning machines or they take sick in the unventilated factories. Their families began to complain, and the workshop met complaints with violence. When armed men appeared at the meeting's end, chaos broke out. I was not familiar with the neighborhood and... I do not think they were interested in me in particular – just in anyone at the meeting. The others at the meeting, they run this risk daily.” Here his eyes flashed, “better me than them, in fact. Better a student with no one to support gets attacked than a mother caring for her injured children. Better me than a family grieving its young dead, casualties of an industry that cared nothing for them. I had no idea how bad it was, Combeferre. There is a war going on. I was simply caught in the crossfire. Caught in the crossfire and ironically the least likely to be truly injured as a result.”

Combeferre thought of the children he treated regularly in the Necker, thought of the textbook – _The Relation of Poverty to Disease_ – still lying on his desk, and shuddered. Then he looked at his battered friend and sighed, squeezing his hand. “You need not worry about supporting a family, that is true. But you were injured nonetheless. I hope you will take some time to rest, even if it is only because a war cannot be won without its soldiers. I know you are my fellow soldier in this and every other battle, but you are my friend, my brother, first and foremost. If I can help you in any way, I will.”

Enjolras squeezed his hand in return but made no reply. The bruises covering his face and torso were beginning to darken and Combeferre was struck by the sheer number of them. He tried to stop himself from thinking too much about those bruises, from realizing the likely truth of how Enjolras received them. But the truth was becoming too clear, now, to fully ignore. For as bruised as he was, Enjolras had startlingly few defensive injuries – he'd barely fought back. The only scenario in which Combeferre could imagine that happening was one in which Enjolras was not physically permitted to fight back. A scenario, in other words, that was more an interrogation than a street brawl. Frightened by the implications of his thoughts, Combeferre shook his head and forced himself to focus on bandaging Enjolras’s chest. Enjolras would share his experience in his own time, Combeferre knew, and there was nothing to be gained from pushing him to do so one second sooner.

“I was thinking,” Enjolras spoke softly and precisely as Combeferre began wrapping gauze around his chest, “of the importance of contacts in Belleville. But I was not thinking about danger – not really. We need a better communication system.” Enjolras reached up and touched Combeferre’s hand where it hovered over his half bandaged chest. “One that won’t get us hurt.” It was an oddly protective gesture, as though Combeferre had been the one attacked.

“Well, what do you suggest?” Combeferre finished his bandaging. “Perhaps we could raise it at the next meeting.”  
“That will be a long meeting,” Enjolras said with one of the gentle smiles he got when he felt the need to tease Combeferre just a little. “And right during the middle of exams. I wonder if I will even pass Remedies?”

Combeferre smiled back, turning to pack his medical supplies away. “Ha. You always do well. You out of all of us don’t need to worry.”

But when he turned back to his friend, Enjolras was no longer smiling. He was shaking again, harder this time. He looked exhausted and slightly bewildered by the violence of his own reaction to the evening’s events.

“Hey. Hey. Enjolras, hey. You're having a bit of a shock reaction.” Combeferre hoped his light tone would be comforting. “We’ll just get you warm and wait this out. You’ll be ready to tear us away from our exams by morning.” He pressed Enjolras’s hand, and Enjolras squeezed his hand in return, his whole body tense from trying to suppress his tremors.

“This is normal. This will pass. Try to relax. I'm going to help you to the bedroom then make you a pot of tea, okay? It's going to be important that you stay hydrated.”

Once settled beneath Combeferre's quilt with a steady supply of tea, Enjolras relaxed slightly. Combeferre put an extra log on the fire, and fetched more blankets from the hall closet. Under the circumstances, it seemed entirely natural and proper to pull Enjolras in towards his chest and arrange the blankets over the two of them. Enjolras did not protest. He simply closed his eyes and resigned himself to the effects of his injuries.

“Enjolras?” Combeferre reached down to push his friend’s hair out of his face. “Are you in much pain?”

“A little.” Enjolras admitted. His eyes were still closed, and Combeferre could feel his chest rising and falling a bit too quickly beneath the blankets.

“Talk to me,” Combeferre said softly, trying to keep Enjolras calm.

“What about?”

“Anything –” Combeferre started to say, and then he had a brilliant idea “Tell me about Patria – about the Republic.”

Enjolras opened his eyes, tipped his head back against Combeferre’s shoulder and talked about the Republic. They were so close that Combeferre could not be sure whether only Enjolras was trembling or whether they both were.

Enjolras spoke as though the Republic had come to life before his eyes. Combeferre was sure that to Enjolras, the room was full of bright ghosts that Combeferre could not see. This was a barrier between them, but the barrier had never mattered. Combeferre said nothing – he could think of nothing to say – but he held Enjolras tightly until his shaking stopped and they both fell into a restless sleep.

     ~ ~

The fire was dying slowly in the grate when Combeferre awoke. Enjolras was lying quietly against his chest, breathing evenly, but when Combferre looked down he saw that his friend was awake.

“How are you feeling?” Combeferre asked, touching his hand to Enjolras’s forehead and noting with relief that he did not have a fever.

“Well enough.” Something about the closed off way he said it made it seem like a lie. He shifted slightly to reach for his now cold tea, and continued, “I was just thinking.”

“May I ask what you were thinking about?”

“I was thinking that I need to be well tomorrow,” Enjolras said. Then seeing Combeferre’s disapproving frown he hastened to add, “I know that I will not be well. Do not give me a lecture about pushing myself. Truthfully, I feel sad, tired, and irrationally frightened, much as I may wish that I did not,” he let his head fall back against Combeferre’s chest in an uncharacteristic gesture of frustration. “But I need to be well tomorrow, regardless. Or at least to seem as though I am well.”

“I promise I wont lecture you,” Combeferre said. He reached down and gently pushed Enjolras’s hair out of his face again. “You will not be well tomorrow. That is not a problem and not a fault. You will be tired, sore, and incredibly stiff. You will feel shaky and frightened and sad. But you will feel better than you do right now. You may have to pretend a bit tomorrow, but you need never pretend with me.”

Enjolras was silent for a long time before he said very softly “I did not tell them anything. Um. They asked and I did not....” He tried, and failed, to take a deep breath, then continued almost harshly, “Combeferre, I'm sorry. I am sure you guessed that I was questioned and beaten in the street. I simply could not seem to tell you. I told them nothing about us. I said nothing. I don't think they cared, really. Their object was to frighten.”

Combeferre looked down at his friend and Enjolras met his gaze levelly, coldly even. There was an unspoken dare in his expression – I dare you to let this undermine our work. I dare you to lose heart. I dare you to see me differently. I dare you to pull away tonight and leave me alone with this.

Combeferre wrapped his arms around Enjolras and kissed him lightly on the forehead. He felt Enjolras breathe out, half a sigh and half a sob, as though he'd been holding his breath for a long time, then grasp his hand and hold on fiercely.

“There were children. At the meeting. They… in front of… the gang pulled me into an alley and beat me _in front of the children_. They… Combeferre, there were children. I shouted to a worker to run… um get them home. I… _the_ _re_ _were children_.”

Combeferre pulled his friend a bit closer and whispered, oh, anything! Anything that might allow him to share a bit of the weight that had so suddenly, and so unfairly, been placed on Enjolras’s shoulders. “It’s over now. It’s over. I’m here. I won’t leave. I have you. You’re safe here. It’s alright. It’s alright. You did everything right. You made sure the children got out safe. You were brave. You were so very brave. You didn't say a word. And it's over. The children are just fine We're all just fine. You told them nothing about us. You did everything right. You're safe. You're safe. I love you.” This last statement surprised Combeferre, once he realized he'd said it, but it was no less true for being surprising. It was so very true that he felt the need to repeat it. “I love you.”

Enjolras smiled through the tears he was no longer even trying to suppress. The gang had left him bleeding in the gutter. The first thought he'd had, as he listened to their footsteps fade slowly into the distance, was “This does not matter. Nothing they can do to me matters.” He felt a warmth and a sense of safety that he could not have explained to anyone. The street was entirely deserted, but he felt as though someone were watching him, someone as far away as the stars, hiding now behind a thick covering of clouds, and as close as the raindrops falling on his aching chest. Lying on cobblestones that had seen the blood and heartache of so many riots and rebellions, he was not alone.

He wasn't sure how long he'd lain in the alley before gathering the strength to push himself, coughing, to his feet. The two-mile walk to Combeferre's rooms was a blur of rain-slick streets and lighted windows. He did not begin to feel anxious until he was standing outside of Combeferre’s door.

It was the anxiety peculiar to people forced to give bad news to those whom they love. Enjolras hated feeling frightened of anything. In point of fact, it made him angry to feel frightened. But he was terribly frightened that Combeferre would be unable, or unwilling, to understand what had happened, that he would shy away from Enjolras on instinct, not willing to deal with how hurt he was. It was wonderful to know that he should not have been worried. Enjolras suddenly felt very tired. He turned his face so that his cheek was resting against Combeferre’s shirt and closed his eyes. “I love you too, my friend, my brother,” he murmured.`

Combeferre was surprised by the faith in his friend’s voice, but it was a welcome change from the doubt in his expression just minutes before. He pulled Enjolras a bit closer, being careful not to jostle his bandaged chest, and planted another kiss on his forehead.

“You can tell me everything sometime, or never discuss it with me again, and my feelings of friendship for you will be no less either way. Only, as I am taking care of you right now, and I somehow doubt you will consent to see a doctor, I am going to insist that you tell me whether you were hurt anywhere else.”

“There was nothing else.”

“And I am going to insist that you tell me if you start feeling overwhelmed, or very sad or frightened all the time.”

“I promise that I will. Perhaps I am simply tired, but the world seems different than it was before. I cannot promise that everything will be as it was. I suspect that it will not be. But I cannot apologize for that. When I was lying in the street, I… sometimes I think that it is only in the darkest places that we can see the light clearly.”

“I think I understand what you mean. Sometimes, in the most critical wards of the Necker, it is as though someone else is there. There is a light somewhere. Someone sees what we do and remembers the kindnesses.” Combeferre laughed. “But it sounds crazy! It is hard to explain it.”

“No,” Enjolras found himself smiling. “I think I understand you very well.” He was feeling extremely tired now, and Combeferre was absently smoothing his hair away from his forehead. The touch was comforting and took his mind off the ache in his ribs and his chest. The terror, anger and grief of the evening were still present, and he felt fairly sure they would be present for some time, but they seemed farther away now than they had before. Slowly, his eyes closed and before he knew it he was asleep.

 


	2. Out Loud to the Darkness

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The people of Belleville react to the violence. 
> 
> WARNING: brief description of violence/torture. Emetophobia. Discussions of child death and illness and just general canon era misery. Some misogyny and transphobia. Also a brief mention of food. NOTE: for those of you who get thrown off by these things, one of the characters quotes Goethe's last words even though Goethe was still very much alive in 1826, as the author of this story I'd like to ask you to -- shhhh, just go with it, just go with it!

 

 

> “Once upon a time," he said out loud to the darkness. He said these words because they were the best, the most powerful words that he knew and just the saying of them comforted him.”  
>  ― [Kate DiCamillo](https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/13663.Kate_DiCamillo), _[The Tale of Despereaux](https://www.goodreads.com/work/quotes/1508178) _
> 
>  

Feuilly did not regret his decision. Indeed, looking back at it now from the relative warmth of the cluttered parlor in Madame Duval's rooming house, he could see no better course of action than the one he had taken. Martin was crying in the kitchen. Élise was making quiet shushing noises and Feuilly could picture her wiping his grubby face with her almost equally grubby sleeve. He smiled at his mental image of Martin's sudden frown and squirming attempts to escape from his eighteen-year old sister's ministrations. “Aaaw no! I'm fine! Awwrrgh!” he heard from the kitchen, confirming his imaginings as being near to the truth. Martin was safe, and the other children with him. But Feuilly's stomach was in knots.

“Is that man okay?” Martin asked for what seemed like the twentieth time, and an image of the man's face rose unbidden in Feuilly's mind for what seemed like the hundredth – delicate features etched with determination and pain yet radiant with something almost like faith. “Get the children out of here!” he'd shouted, and Feuilly had immediately begun to do just that – acting without a second thought. The children took priority. That was an unspoken rule between the families of workers who had gathered – we do this for the children. Feuilly had paused, it was true, when he saw the knife – paused in a moment of shock because it had never gotten this violent before. But the man, though already bleeding, seemed unafraid. “Run. Now!” he'd ordered, his sacrifice giving him the only authority he needed. The ten children stood petrified, staring at the long blade of the knife. Feuilly gathered them around him and gestured towards a side street. Then they'd run till they were out of breath.

He'd returned less than half an hour later to find the alley deserted. No knife. No blood. No sign that the alley was anything more than a cobblestone lane – one of the many in Belleville. For a moment, Feuilly toyed with the idea that he'd simply imagined the attack. But, no, of course he hadn't. There were ten frightened children in Madame Duval's kitchen who could corroborate that he hadn't.

So Feuilly searched for the man, combing the streets for hours, till exhaustion and cold finally pushed him inside with nothing to show for his efforts. “You've lost someone,” he thought bleakly. “My God, you've been doing this work for only one year and you've lost someone.” He wasn't sure what frightened him more, the fact that someone had been badly hurt, possibly killed, at a meeting he'd organized, or the fact that he'd expected someone would be someday – just not this soon. Guilt hit him like a fist to the stomach, and he gagged, wondering if he was going to throw up.

“Drink this if you feel sick. Don't make a mess of my elegant sofa.” Madame Duval materialized at his elbow with a steaming mug and an understanding smile. Feuilly couldn't help his own smile at her deadpan use of the word “elegant”. The sofa, like all of her furniture, was threadbare and ink-stained, splotched with coffee and who knew what else. Like all of her furniture it smelled inexplicably of vegetable soup. All that could be said for it was that it fit with the parlor's décor – soot-darkened walls that had been drawn on by legions of small hands, lumpy crocheted gifts from boarders, much-handled books.

“And sit down before you fall down,” Madame Duval added. Feuilly sat. “How many hours did you spend looking?”

“Three?” Guilt and exhaustion warred in his chest – too tired to keep going, too upset to sit still. Madame Duval nudged his arm reminding him of his drink, and he took a quick sip. It was strongly spicy-sweet and he felt his nausea lessen as he swallowed.

“Three hours is a long time to be out in the rain. I sent a message to all our families to do their part searching. No one's found a thing.”

“I'm worried he's down some alley we haven't searched – suffering, I …to be alone and hurt after –.” Feuilly shook his head to clear it. This was his own fear, the one he conquered before each dangerous meeting – the fear of dying alone by inches after an attack, not found and not remembered.

Madame Duval must have seen the panic in his eyes. “The young man's name is Enjolras,” she spoke slowly and calmly, “He is a law student in his first year. I invited him to the meeting, and I don't regret it. He can protect himself and, what's more, he could be a great deal of help to us.” Taking up a pen and paper from the end table, she scribbled hastily for a moment and then continued, “He frequents the Cafe Musain. Here is the address. Go see him tomorrow.”

Feuilly felt his shoulders relax as she held the paper out to him. At last! A direction. A way forward. Something to _do_ in the midst of all this horrible uncertainty and stasis. He took the paper and folded it carefully, bending to place it in the inner pocket of his bag.

“Will you teach the reading lesson tonight?” Madam Duval asked, absently pushing flyaway auburn curls back into the bun at the nape of her neck. She looked tired, Feuilly thought – more tired than she wanted any of them to know.

He closed his eyes, sipped his tea, and swallowed down the guilt, anger, exhaustion, and fear, as he'd done so many times before. When he opened his eyes, his expression was as soft as he could make it. “Of course,” he said.

~ ~

The children were a pale and wary group, two-thirds girls and one third younger boys, with pronounced dark circles under their too-tired eyes. As always, at least half of them were coughing, awful barking coughs from deep in their chests.

Feuilly smiled warmly and made small talk, grasping at some semblance of normalcy, as he passed out the much-abused work-books. Looking up for a moment, he caught sight of Élise gathering the youngest children around her slate to practice letters. He nodded and she smiled in return, but, unusually, it did not reach her eyes.

Martin, always the boldest, pulled on Feuilly's sleeve. “Feuilly! What happened to that man tonight – could that happen to us?”

For a split second, Feuilly's vision went dark and he feared that he might pass out in front of everyone. But then it cleared and he saw that every face in the room was turned towards him. Élise sat staring with her hands in her lap, her chalk and the children around her forgotten.

“This,” thought Feuilly, “would be the moment to tell a comforting lie.” He took a deep breath and told the truth instead.

“What happened tonight could happen to any of us here, simply because of the fact that we are here right now. We are doing something the workshop owners do not want us to do – we are learning and organizing, and that puts us all at some risk. But some of us are at greater risk than others. _Our_ aim is to protect _you_ , to give you a place to learn and grow where you do not have to feel sick and afraid.” Martin's eyes were huge. Feuilly offered a quick prayer to any divine being that might be listening, swallowed, and continued. “You know how we read Rumplestiltskin last week? Well, you know how the king commanded the miller's daughter to spin straw into gold? What if she'd been able to spin that straw into a ladder instead? She could have used that ladder to escape. And what if that ladder was so long that she reached a world where no one was forced to spin straw into gold? She'd be free.”

“And the king would be angry,” Martin provided to nervous laughter.

“Yes,” Feuilly agreed, “the king would be angry. Right now, the workshops want us to spin cotton, and we are trying to spin a ladder instead. The only task we've set for you is to climb the ladder – carefully – but there is some risk even in climbing. It is up to you how much you want to risk. Please know that we will do everything in our power to protect you – _everything we possibly can_ – but it might not be enough. By coming here to learn you are risking a bit of your safety. By coming to meetings you are risking much more. You can do one without the other. I … I won't tell you what to decide.”

“Claude died last month when he got caught under a machine.” Martin sounded matter of fact. “I don't want to die without having learned to read.” A chorus of agreement went up from all fifteen children, and Feuilly was torn between pride and horror.

Élise coughed, a painful sound, then clearly forcing cheerfulness, she said, “Well, if you all want to learn to read, we had better get on with it!”

~ ~

After the lesson, Élise approached Feuilly with a sheaf of papers – her latest mathematics work he realized. “Will you check them over?” she asked.

“I'll try. Though you're getting beyond my skill at this point. Eventually we'll have to find someone more capable of teaching you.”

“Like the school masters.” Élise's smile was bitter. It was a well known fact that girl's education contained little even in the way of basic addition and subtraction.

Feuilly was undeterred. “No. Not like them. We'll find someone better.”

Élise smiled again, a truly happy smile this time. She reached out shyly to touch his sleeve for a moment, then quickly withdrew her hand as though she'd thought better of it. Her hands were chapped from work and raw from the wet and cold. Her cheeks, also, were red with eczema and slightly flushed with exhaustion. It was not, Feuilly thought suddenly, lightheadedly, that she was pretty, it was that she was undaunted – a young woman like a newly lit match.

“More light,” Élise said.

“Pardon?”

“More light. Those were Goethe's last words – I was reading about him the other day in that book you gave me. I don't want to wait till I'm dying to ask for more light. I want to create it while I'm alive. I think ...” she broke off, biting her lip, searching for words, “I think we _are_ creating more light here. You, me, Madame Duval, the children. We're spinning it out of darkness – much better than spinning straw into gold.”

Feuilly found he could only echo her words, “much better,” adding, “light is stronger than any gang.” He wondered what mechanism there was in his heart that so consistently turned all his rage at the injustice of the world into tenderness.

~ ~

“Will you stay the night?” Madame Duval was rummaging in the linen closet for blankets. “Some of the children are. I'll make you up a bed.”

Feuilly hesitated. The company would have been a comfort, and it would likely be safer to sleep where he was than to venture out again into the dark. But, ultimately, he knew his privacy was more important than his comfort. And it was his privacy that ensured his safety far more than anything else.

“No, thank you. I'll sleep better in my own bed.”

Madame Duval looked doubtful, but she nodded all the same. “Be safe, then. And keep warm tonight. Let me wrap you up some dinner before you leave.”

Despite the earlier excitement in the streets, Feuilly's walk home was uneventful. He climbed the stairs to his garret apartment, shut the door behind him and breathed a deep sigh of relief. He was too exhausted for a full bath, but idea of being clean was far too tempting to ignore, so he started the fire, and set a kettle to heat over it. Then he stripped off his jacket, trousers, shirt, and modified chemise, and tried to role the tension out of his shoulders. Feuilly had made the chemise himself, and though it did an excellent job of hiding his breasts, its tightness sometimes made his back hurt. He couldn't help but wish that he didn't have to wear it.

After a quick wash with the heated water and a quicker dinner, Feuilly surrendered to fatigue, lying down with one of his favorite books, a translation of Thomas Paine's _Common Sense_. Despite his need to conserve candles, he sought some solace in Paine's words before trying to seek sleep. Eventually he dozed off, marking his place with the slip of paper Madame Duval had given him – like a blessing, or a prayer, or a plea.

~ ~

Excerpt from the Diary of Mme. Z. Duval nee Magloire (widow)

11th of April, 1826

Belleville, France

More difficulties today – worst so far. Productive discussion before they occurred, but uncertain now what their effect will be. Was worried for F. – he feels things so deeply. But empathy is his great strength, also. He comforted the children and found his own comfort in that. Shame on a society that forces the best, the most compassionate, teachers to fight lest there be no children left to teach.

Five gamins staying the night, along with some of the older girls – it's cold and wet out and they are frightened (though many won't admit it). We'll have breakfast tomorrow, though I wish I'd more to share with them just now. We have the bread and milk from yesterday, and that jar of jam from Marie. I suppose that's enough and the jam will be a nice treat.

Concerned for E. All who could looked for him. F. searched for hours and I've asked F. to go to the Cafe M. tomorrow. God willing, he is fine. I know he can protect himself – let it not be said that I invite the defenseless into the lion's den!

Ah! What sort of person am I who brings the youth into this struggle? But what sort of person would I be if I did not?

My aunt when she served in D. under what everyone called a holy Bishop was roundly praised for the “heroism of passive obedience” – by which, I take it, her admirers meant that a woman bowing to the desire of a man to live with danger and hardship always at his door was to be complimented for her unthinking devotion. Well, what of that? Soldiers are obedient. I, too, obey the twin lords of necessity and humanity – how could I not when children are suffering in the streets, the mills, the workshops?

My shoulder is giving me some pain. One of the toughs tonight called me a “fat old woman.” I informed him that, indeed, I am one and so is his mother. I gather, from his reaction, that he took it differently than it was meant. Ah, well.

Fat old woman indeed. The hippocracy of men! I am a fat old woman when I stand between them and something they want – otherwise, I am wonderfully plump and rosy, a woman past her youth, but not yet old. Is the sharpness of their eyes really so tied to whether or not they get their way?

Shoulder is bruised, but I can move my arm with some effort. Hip still pains me ever since that first day. No one was expecting the violence then. NOTE TO SELF: try to save up to see Dr. H. this month re these complaints.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again a big 'thank you' to Feuillyova and onlyacoffee for discussing characterization and history with me.
> 
> As always, any errors are my own.

**Author's Note:**

> Title is a reference to an Emily Dickinson quote, “my friends are my estate.”  
> Chapter title is a quote from Les Miserables, Fantine, p. 145.
> 
> SOME THANK YOU'S
> 
> A huge thank you to Ravenclawfeuilly, who shared her trans Feuilly and Enjolras headcannons with me and listened to me gush about mine. And a huge thank you to Feuillyova, historian-extraordinaire, for helping me position this story within the French worker's movement in a way that was, if not historically accurate, then at least not hilariously anachronistic. Any errors are mine. Sometimes I prefer a good story to the truth, and my friends can only do so much to save me from myself.


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